gladly beyond
by Reciprocal
Summary: She thinks sometimes she could keep him, and for an hour, sometimes two, it's almost like peace.


**a/n: Helloo everyone! I wrote this piece specifically for one very one person! I got to become friends with Alice on the Next Gen Fanatics for the Union in Peril Forum Collab! This is for her, but I hope you enjoy it too!**

**enjoy**

**gladly beyond**

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They meet every day, 7 o'clock sharp, in the library, third table from the back, hidden between the stacks with a perfect view of the pitch. He sits there because he can watch for Albus coming back from Quidditch practice and know it's time for Prefect Rounds. She sits there because, well, that's where he is isn't it?

Every night its hard wooden benches and the rustling of crumbling pages. He might rise to light another torch, knowing that Rose will continue struggling read even in pitch darkness, never mind the way her red curls gleam gold in the candlelight. And for her part Rose ducks her head and holds her breath, pretending that she doesn't notice the way his shirt rises just a few inches up his abdomen as he stretches. Because that really would ruin their friendship wouldn't it?

She might clear her throat of the spicy smell of him, and he may let his eyes flicker up at the excuse to look at her.

And for an hour, sometimes two, it's almost like peace.

.

She has always loved words.

She remembers tracing them in her mum's book when she was too little to read, fascinated by their loops and fantastical curves.

When she grew old enough to speak she reveled in the jumble of them in her mouth, spilling out in a rush and tumbling effortlessly over each other.

But even with all the words she has seen or heard or dreamed of cannot begin to describe Scorpius Malfoy and the _lookatme_ that his eyes compel out of her.

.

She's alone in the library for most of the day on weekends. Oh yes, she has friends, and oh yes she has family. But she doesn't really know where they disappear off to when they're sick of her and in the library everything seems to melt away until it's simply her, her books, and sometimes him.

She'll sit, eyes burning down at the pages in front of her, until she feels his presence slid across from her.

His eyes will quirk a smile at her, and her heart will stop, just once, before he initiates the conversation, "It's always amazing that you haven't gotten booted out for talking yet."

But unlike the twang she gets in her stomach when she overhears Dom or James telling her to shut up, her stomach flips with an entirely different emotion.

She wonders if Albus told him to find her. If everyone's looking for her and it was only he who knew where she went when she wanted to be alone.

Then the words that usually come so naturally are stuck somewhere in her eyes and, as she looked into his, words seem hardly enough.

.

She thinks sometimes she could keep him, that she could capture his bright mind essence within her clenched hands and not spill a drop for anyone else. But that would selfish, wouldn't it? And she knows he could never be confined like that. He is Apollo, racing across the sky, and she is Hestia, stuck at the hearth.

He might be Apollo, but he is no golden boy, she knows that.

He is a shining silver prince, as his father never could be, and she is stuck in the body of a frizzy ginger, perpetually clutching a cat and struggling with baggy maroon sweaters and a family legacy just as cumbersome.

She never has trouble describing just how unlikely _she_ is.

.

"You know, you are surprisingly depressing for such a gossip."

Rose's eyebrows quirk together as she tries to put on an annoyed front. She places her hands delicately on the table in front of her, realizing just then that she had been gesturing rather violently. Well, Jennie's hair had been _rather_ large.

He continues as if he hadn't interrupted her re-telling of that afternoon's latest scandal, "It's the way you phrase things, at least around me, you make everything sound almost poetic and maudlin."

Rose tries not to blush at his "at least, not around me." But then she always been awful at containing herself around him and her cheeks subsequently redden.

She distracts herself by replying hotly, "Poetry isn't necessarily depressing! Just look at e.e. cummings, his poems are lovely!"

Scorpius raises a pale eyebrow, "Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, hell even Shakespeare!'

"Shakespeare was a romantic," Rose replies stubbornly.

"Is that what you are?"

She doesn't know what she is around him, but it feels like so much _more_ that she has to reply with a hint of her normal obliviousness for fear she find herself floating away from the attentiveness of his gaze.

She could be brave, in this instance. She _could_ tell the truth, that it is only around him that she finds herself wishing for grand gestures and romantic ideals, but that would be far too Lily for her liking and if he turned away from her in that instant she didn't know how she could bear it.

"I'm a seventeen year old female, Scorpius, you should know that my kind demand romance."

Scorpius barks out a laugh and traces imaginary lines on her essay, "Then have you thought of writing your poeticism down Rosie? If I buy you a journal next Hogsmeade trip?" Because he's braver than she is, if only in this small way.

She finds herself nodding, not wanting to break the fragile promise his words entail with superfluous conversation.

He sees the happiness in her eyes and cannot begin to regret the impulse.

.

The bell rings the end of Divination interrupting Rose midsentence.

"Come on, finish up on your way to Defense," Lucy pulls her sleeve to hurry her out and Rose catches the tail end of a sigh and her put upon face before it rearranges into an attentive expression.

Rose pauses rather than continue, in all honesty she can hardly remember what she was in the middle of telling Lucy, was it truly that newsworthy? Sensing an escape Lucy has already turned to greet Roxanne who falls into line next to Lucy.

The halls are a crush of students jostling, shouting, and laughing and suddenly Rose feels so very small. She jerks to a halt, looking down in curiosity at the pale hand that's pulled her away from Lucy and Roxanne. Scorpius has rolled his sleeves up and Rose can just make out the lines of muscle under his forearms before she averts her eyes and stifles indecent thoughts.

Instead she grins up at his lidded eyes giggling as she realizes his hair is tousled from an impromptu nap in Trelawney's. He sends a quick sleepy smile at her before darting a look around and pulling her into a side corridor. And it hits her like a sudden jolt to the chest how much she misses him outside their little corner of the library.

She looks up again to see him glancing down at her again, something shining in his eyes that manifests in his voice when explains, "No time like the present, yeah?"

It's only when she sees the familiar figure of a one-eyes witch that she realizes he means to drag her to Hogsmeade, and wonders what it says about her that she let him get this far without question. She might as well admit to herself, if no one else, that she would let Scorpius Malfoy get away with dragging her many more places than simply Hogsmeade.

The look in his eyes is also familiar, and she allows her eyes to sweep over the comforting planes of his face recognizing the set of his jaw as particularly determined and the satisfied quirk of his mouth when he notices that she won't protest them skiving off lessons.

And it's a mix of new and old as she lowers herself down the rabbit hole behind him, her heart beating frantically with both the accustomed fear of capture and something much more as well.

.

The little bookshop is almost stifling with its towering bookshelves spaced only feet apart. Rose quickly turns into another of the long winded corridors as she hears one creak ominously under the weight of its cargo.

Still, she loves the small dusty sanctuary the store provides and every Hogsmeade trip she has found herself nestled in some nook of books while her cousins shout and gallop to her uncle's shop on the main street. Even now with rain drumming outside and her hair damply curling she's overwhelmed and comforted by the smell of dusty tomes and the soft padding of her feet in the otherwise silent store. Somewhere Scorpius is drying himself near the fireplace and she's wrapped in his jumper from a well-meaning gesture of chivalry as they tried to dodge the rain from Honeydukes. Her hair prickles against her neck as the smell the scent of him rises off the damp jumper and she composes her face before stepping back to the front of the store, holding out the plain leather notebook out like an offering.

Rose finds him huddled over something at the register, which he stuffs into his back pocket, straightening as she wanders towards him. She lets her eyes sneak towards him as she trails fingers over the worn wood sheltering a collection of used books. A corner of soft dark green suede peeks out of his trousers as he slides her new notebook and a handful of coins across to the bored witch at the register. Scorpius has never been much of a reader, preferring to listen to her retellings of stories or Albus' prattling rather than speak up of experiences himself. And surely he should have found her a comrade if he had suddenly taken an interest in books but instead he tucked her package and her under an arm and led them out once more into the pouring rain.

"Let's wait it out at the Broomsticks, yeah?" he shouts over the roar and she nods back, spluttering over the water rolling down her face.

It's only after stepping into the heat of the Three Broomsticks does she notice that Scorpius had grabbed her hand in the rain, and its only as it slips out of hers that she misses it. It is true then, it seems, that you never know what it is you have until you want it with every beat of your heart.

Her fingers itch for her new journal, and her heart aches a little more with these reactions that are overwhelming her in the warmth and intimacy of Scorpius' gaze. And suddenly the idea of sharing such private moments with anyone else revolts her and she can't bear the thought of it slipping out of her with all the other trash she spews about every mundane day.

So it's only once they've settled into a booth and received their butterbeer that she allows her eyes to settle upon him once more and he blushes as he blurts out, "Sorry."

She blinks in surprise, as much for him speaking before her than what he said, "What for?"

He waves expansively, "This. The rain. I thought it would be a quick jaunt out and I know I'm keeping you from your study."

She smiles at them then, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over her palms again, "Can't be bothered to control the weather Malfoy? I'd have thought you were at least good for that!"

This gets him laughing and he beams at her, inviting her to shine with him.

They sit in companionable silence reminiscent of their corner in the library, until Rose raises her arm for another butterbeer and gasps, "Oh no! I'm so sorry."

She's staring horrified where the cuffs of Scorpius' jumper are hanging around her wrists. In her absentminded pulling the edges have molded themselves to the heel of her hand and are misshapen and limp.

Scorpius pulls them across the table a good-natured smile flickering around his mouth at her expression. He arm gets pulled as well, awkwardly bumping into the wood and he gives her elbow an absentminded rub as he fiddles the wool around the bulge.

"No matter, it's hardly noticeable Rose!" he reassures her. Flipping her her hand over to expose her palm he briefly touches the very edge of her fingertips with his before drawing them back and tucking his hands under the table.

"nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"

"What?" Rose looks up still shaken over the feel of him. There is a strange cadence to his voice, as though the words are not his but he owns them in some indescribable way.

He simply shakes his head smiling down at her and it is impossible not to smile back.

.

He lets her keep the sweater, and Rose waits until she is safely up the dormitory and far from any prying eyes to tie the abused sleeves around her as if they could be his arms.

Scorpius waits until he is safely on the edge of sleep and far away from any conscious thought before wishing he could wrap around her and tangle in the moonlight.

.

It's in History of Magic that she sees the green suede cover again, and recognizes the worn book from a shelf in the book shop. She remembers running her knuckles over it once in second year but for the life of her she cannot remember what it contained.

But something is wrong as she recognizes tension in Scorpius' shoulders and in the way he hides it from sight when Al thumps into the seat next to him.

Curiosity gets the better of her so she waits for him after class, and they are far far away from any library, and finds him sweeping past her without the merest flicker of recognition.

She tries to ignore the dull thud of her chest that grows stronger with irrational fear and again when he sees him laughing and chatting up a Ravenclaw at lunch.

Because he only really, _truly_ talks to her doesn't he?

.

He doesn't appear in the library that night.

.

She doesn't even wait the next

.

When she sees his ducking out of their corner on the third day, hours before 7 o'clock sharp, she wonders how everything could have collapsed so completely. She hadn't even known there had been anything; otherwise surely she could have protected it better.

But something in her chest feels different and it might as well be her heart. She doesn't even notice as she piles gossip upon tale on her poor cousin's ears disregarding their truth until she's gasping for a real conversation, because that was what Scorpius had offered. And then he had closed her up and withdrawn that offer just as she had known it enough to miss.

.

It takes four more days before he cannot bear the silence any longer.

.

She walks into the library five minutes later than seven almost hoping she doesn't see his light hair glinting under the torchlight, never mind the swoop of her stomach as she turns into their corner and finds the table occupied. There isn't a sight of him but she knows by the ubiquitous green paperback, the familiar eagle feather quill lying beside an empty inkwell, and of course that heady leap her heart takes at the sight of his long looping writing covering a piece of parchment.

She lets her bag slide down her arm to the ground as she traces over the words, not noticing the ink that smudges the very tips of her fingers blue. The suede feels electric, every sensation magnified in her dreamlike state, as she flips it over from where its lying face down on the table. She brushes back the curling edges as she lets it fall open to the passage she knows has been haunting Scorpius. For books never lie and the pages reflect the number of times they have been read, as if whoever had been reading it had treasured the words left on its pages.

And here are the words she has been searching for, here they are, all so new and familiar at the same time and when she reaches, '_your slightest look easily will unclose me'_ she finally has a word for what her body is doing right in that moment. Unclosing, _unclosing_ as if it were so simple. As if she had simply been a drawer that had been shut for so long it had forgotten why it existed, to _open_.

At the end she mouths the words along and knows the only line left off the parchment at her fingertips. The ink, knowingly had run out with the strength of the words before and had hardly any for that one last line.

"_nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"_

She knows with that knowledge of being suddenly _unclosed_ when he returns, new ink in hand and old love in eyes.

She swallows and wonders and doesn't look up until she reads the title again, _'somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond' _and touches the _e.e. cummings _that comes after and knows what he has done, and what they are.

They are beyond.

There are no words for it, but that doesn't mean they will ever stop searching. They have the unknown, they have the wordless, they have the joy in the questioning. They have it and it is theirs and what does it matter that they cannot name it without such beautiful silence.

He seems to crash through space and time and the light of a thousand golden suns (or are they silver moons?) explodes as he reaches her and it is oh so gentle and harsh and she can hardly bear it and so she presses her lips to his and surrenders. She takes and he gives (or is it the other way around?) and he finds her hands and presses them to his heart and she feels it beating as free and open as hers.

so so gladly _beyond_.

.

_somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond_

_any experience,your eyes have their silence:_

_in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,_

_or which i cannot touch because they are too near_

_your slightest look easily will unclose me_

_though i have closed myself as fingers,_

_you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens_

_(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose_

_or if your wish be to close me, i and_

_my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,_

_as when the heart of this flower imagines_

_the snow carefully everywhere descending;_

_nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals_

_the power of your intense fragility:whose texture_

_compels me with the color of its countries,_

_rendering death and forever with each breathing_

_(i do not know what it is about you that closes_

_and opens;only something in me understands_

_the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)_

_nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands_

_e.e. cummings_

**I hope you enjoyed it please do not favorite without a review! They truly make my day!**

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